A new story from the Kettleby Archive: Something in the Gulf Knew My Name
What kind of drowning man can stand perfectly still in forty feet of water? And how does he know your name? I spent nine summers as a lifeguard on Florida's Gulf coast, and I still can't answer either question. I've stopped trying. I just don't go in past my knees anymore. Here's what the job teaches you.
Drowning is quiet. A drowning person doesn't wave or shout. They just slip lower, with their mouth at the waterline. So when Ray said a man past the flags was splashing like someone in a movie, I didn't think, rescue. I thought, that's wrong. It was a Thursday in August, twenty past two.
Six of us in the tower, the AC rattling, someone's iced coffee sweating a ring onto the counter. We were laughing about a tourist who'd tried to tip us in quarters. In a sandwich bag. Ray had the binoculars. Then Ray stopped laughing. He stopped in the middle of a sentence. He didn't say swimmer.
…
Sleep well. Or try to.